Winter
by OneMagician
Summary: Rumpelstiltskin didn't go to New York six weeks after Belle exiled him. He stayed close by, and because he did, he has to deal with the spirits that he summoned. But, there is light even in the very darkest of winter nights, and some of his visitors at the cabin in the woods outside the town line aren't at all what he might have expected.


Winter

The rivers and streams were fast asleep, dreaming a deep, longing dream of sunlight beneath a thick blanket of perfect white on the coldest day that this past year had bestowed upon father and son. The two men were sitting at the table in the cabin's only room in silence, picking at the food on their plates. Neither of them was very hungry, and one of them knew the other was just as much a deep, longing dream as sunlight was on this bitter, dreary late December solstice.

The woods all around them were so quiet, it was as if the falling snow had made up its mind to shut out the world beyond altogether. Rumpelstiltskin couldn't say for sure whether he was entirely grateful for that or not but he _was_ grateful for his son's presence, even in this shape. It was all he was going to get.

He'd learned to live with the stillness, and he'd learned to live with the cold, but that didn't mean they were friends of his. They never had been in all the long years of his life; he'd never chosen them, but he'd always accepted what life had thrown at him and made the best of it with the means he'd been given – or _taken_ for himself from the debris. Only, here and now he wasn't really in control of life or death anymore; he was just a spectator, and he was going along because he didn't think he had a choice.

He still had elements of his Abilities in depleted form, but the dagger was in Storybrooke, and so was the one person who'd still mattered enough to influence his thinking in any way.

Months of chilly hush and iciness had sealed him inside himself and this house, and he'd felt like was sleepwalking through time, much like he had after he'd become the Dark One, and much like when he'd lost Bae to his curse and the love his son had felt for him in the damp, bare forest a few miles east of where they were now. The place his boy had died was close to the spot where Blue's magic bean portal had taken him away eons ago, at fourteen, the difference being that _then_, he'd had_ hope. _After Bae had died_, _he'd had next to none, aside from the tiny flicker of light that had appeared in his ocean of darkness much later – but that was gone, too. It was buried beneath the snow drifts on the other side of the town line she'd put him across.

The summer had been long and warm on this side of reality, but Rumpelstiltskin had seen nothing of its kindness, and it had passed into autumn before he'd noticed. The rising wind of autumn had brought a lot of unpleasantness with it, and he hadn't even wanted to awaken to more of the same anymore at some stage. The visitors he'd started having had been a lot less agreeable than today's.

He'd come back to life quite abruptly this morning because he'd discovered there was someone in the house with him he hadn't expected to see _at all_. He'd sat upright with a jolt when he'd heard the familiar voice calling him, and he'd gotten out of bed to throw his arms around his son, cool, fresh air filling his lungs all the way and unhindered for what seemed like the first time since he'd come here. It was a beautiful illusion, and he'd managed to convince himself that it was real, for a while. Deep inside, he knew that it was probably born of the same inner confusion that had brought his other guests over the last weeks since the seasons had changed.

"This is good," Bae began, swallowing a mushy helping of the overdone potatoes he'd sloshed onto his plate next to the rock hard, stringy princess beans and the burnt pork chops.

"No, it's not," the aging sorcerer smirked, sorely tempted to wave a handful of magic over his attempt at putting together a meal for his caller, who'd claimed to be hungry, and Baelfire chuckled, putting down his cutlery.

"I think I've had worse," he told his father, trying to keep a straight face, and Rumple looked down at his own plate doubtfully, his eyebrows quirking.

"I don't think _I_ have," he returned and laughed, possibly for the first time since Belle had exiled him. He didn't honestly think that charred meat and soggy, disintegrating spuds were all that funny, but looking at Bae's wide, indulging grin, however real or fabricated, he couldn't help himself.

His son had always brought out the best in him because his boy had been searching for the good, warm beating heart inside of him so very intently as a child. Children tended to do that, and their memories of the difficult, worrisome times were short, so he'd been a hero to Bae even when he'd been hardly more than a beggar that hadn't always been able to put food on the table – any kind of food. He recalled nights when they'd gone hungry and long winter days spent hunting while dodging the king's guard with little success, and the weight of that responsibility resting on his warm and beating heart had almost been enough to crush it. That heart was worn and blackened by all the wrong decisions he'd made since his only child had seen the hero in him, but it resided within him even still, and it was heavier than ever.

Just then, the image of Baelfire faded. His son was gone, and he was alone again. His face froze, and this time, he did wave a hand agitatedly over the dishware, breaking the promise he'd made to himself for the umpteenth time as plates vanished along with knives and forks, and the pots and pans disappeared from the stove.

Magic wasn't just a crutch, and it wasn't just an obsession; it was a part of him Belle had always accepted in another world and time – up until the point when she'd stopped. Now, there wasn't a day he didn't ask himself what had changed; why she'd suddenly ceased to believe that the things he did had reason, but he supposed he'd have to wait for her to tell him about that some time because he simply didn't understand, and he had no way back.

Another empty chair, he thought then, as he slowly got to his feet and walked to the window by the front door. There was a shuffling noise behind him before he'd even gotten a good look at the high drifts that had started forming here and there against the heaps of firewood he'd stacked and the small toolshed where he kept his axe and the gas for the generator, and he turned to see who'd come to see him this time. He'd never had two guests in just one morning before, so this was unusual.

"Well, well, well, darling," Zelena crooned, leaning back, watching him with a hint of amusement in her eyes. "You look like you've seen a _ghost_."

The expression she wore was as smug as ever, but he didn't take the bait. Tormenting him was what she did, and he didn't think she had any other purpose whatsoever.

He drew a breath and released it evenly, folding his arms across his chest. "And what is it you want from me today?" he inquired, his voice low and steady as he could keep it, though his impatience always sounded through.

"Why, to keep you company, of course" she sang, theatrically crossing her legs and caressing a knee with slender, long-fingered hands. "And… to punish you. You've been a really bad boy."

If she'd meant to be intimidating, she'd fallen short, and if she'd meant to be seductive, she'd just sounded cheap.

"There's nothing you could do to me that you haven't already done," he replied dryly, taking a few steps towards her, glaring down at her intently, and the sneer on her lips widened, revealing teeth that could bite but didn't frighten him anymore.

"Oh, I don't know," she snorted, her eyes narrowing at him provocatively. "I could think of a few things. There were some things we might have executed a little more… _thoroughly_. I do regret that we didn't, and I'll bet you do, too."

Leaning in to her, his temper flared dangerously. He didn't mean for it to get the better of him, but Zelena had that effect on him, even in death. "The only thing I regret is that I didn't _kill_ you a little more _thoroughly_," he growled, remembering the unreflecting, mindless urgency of the deed once he'd been free of her and alone in that cell with her. "You know, kill you so you'd _stay_ dead."

He could still hear her laughing after she, too, had vanished, and there was a red hot knot in his chest that felt like it might burn his insides to cinders although he thought that he'd definitely won this round, or so he assumed. She had no power over him. Not anymore. Not like the year he'd been in her "possession" and he'd spent all that winter in a cage with the breath of Mayhem, Turmoil and Fear on his face.

He hadn't quite recovered his composure when he noticed a boy in his teens by the fireplace, all dressed in green.

Pan's lean frame was propped casually against the mantelpiece, and his eyes were alert with a glint in them that told Rumpelstiltskin Zelena hadn't retreated simply because he'd managed to deal with her; she'd merely made room for worse.

"Aye, laddie, now you'd think I'd get a heartier welcome here," he grinned, and Rumple took a deep breath, straightening his back involuntarily as his muscles tensed and his stomach cramped.

"Leave," he said resolutely, but the boy who never wanted to grow up didn't move, nor did he have any intention to.

"And here was I, thinking you'd be in need of some moral support," Pan offered instead, his mien unchanged. "It being Christmas and all."

"Christmas?" the sorcerer snorted incredulously, "Since when have you ever observed that particular holiday, or thought of anyone in need of support – besides yourself, I mean?"

"Well, every day of my life was a holiday there for a while," he boasted, pushing his hands into his sides. "I had no desire to give or share, and I always knew you'd be better off without me."

"You mean that _you_'d be better off without _me_," Rumpelstiltskin corrected him remarkably collectedly, remembering the first winter without his father, and Pan began circling him, thinking about it. His selfishness might have cost his young son's life if little Rumple hadn't been smart enough to go back to the spinsters, but _laddie_ had done just that. Being free of his father had given him his best chance, ultimately, and the man Rumple had become knew that.

"You never did have a very firm grasp on reality, did you?" Pan chortled ignorantly then, and the sorcerer looked first at his feet before fixing his gaze to Peter's.

"Maybe I didn't when I still believed in you, but I think I do see things very clearly now," he responded evenly, aware that he was talking to a ghost – or his mind's concept of one – and he smiled to himself at the irony of it. "But, you were _so_ right. I _was_ better off."

Only recently had he come to appreciate the fact, and he'd been waiting to tell his father that ever since it had dawned on him after one of his first visits. Nothing he'd done after Malcom had been gone from his life had been anyone's doing but his own. Nothing aside from when Zelena had wielded the dagger, but that was the reason he'd been trying to cleave himself from the dagger's hold. He never wanted to be anyone's puppet again, and he didn't want to have to blame anyone for his actions.

Pan looked slightly bewildered from one second to the next, but he soon regained himself. "So, _this_ is what you call 'better off'?" he bit out crossly. "You could have joined me – you could have had it all, _why_ didn't you?"

Rumple made a point of ignoring him and turned his back, sitting down at the table as Peter slowly faded out, ranting and raving without getting his answer.

When he was sure he was alone again, he mumbled, "Because I was loved" into the silence.

There had been a lot of good in his life despite everything; he'd had a lot of things Malcom could never have given him _because_ he'd been abandoned by the man. Being discarded like an old sock by the person he'd clung to and trusted had hurt and left scars, and history had had a habit of repeating itself, but there had been compensations. He had collected good memories; recollections of perfect moments that no one would ever take away from him. Malcom had left a hole in his soul for the longest time, and it had been most prominent especially after discovering that he'd failed his own son just as badly as he himself had been failed. But, he'd died to make it up to Bae, and they'd both found a kind of peace with one another, adding to the memories he'd salvaged from the wreckage.

He imagined that peace was the one thing neither Malcom nor Zelena would ever have, but this didn't give him satisfaction, strangely: realizing what they'd left this earth with, he felt sorry for them. Well, to an extent.

When he looked up again, Milah had taken a seat opposite him.

"You again," he groaned, tenting his fingers, elbows on the tabletop. "Pray tell, what is it this time?"

When she hesitated before speaking, he sighed, flicking his wrist to conjure a glass of wine in front of her.

"Well?"

She took a long drink, emptying the glass in one go, and he refilled it for her, expecting some tale or other of his shortcomings before he got a closer look at her. When she still wouldn't talk to him and commenced staring into the red, sweet claret he'd made exactly to her taste, he leaned forward, tilting his head in one direction the way he tended to do when he needed to concentrate, and he studied her attentively.

He'd been wrong, he decided: she wasn't here to hurt him for a change. Not today. Something was different about her – maybe it was her taciturnity, which he was absolutely unaccustomed to – but there was more, and he couldn't quite put his finger on it.

Once upon a time, he'd loved her deeply and truly, but she'd never loved him back the way he'd needed her to, and so he'd wronged her in the worst possible way even though he'd known that from the beginning. You couldn't _make_ someone love you, and you couldn't expect relief from taking vengeance for the inevitable sad ending to a fairy story like that. There wasn't a power in this world or any other that could create a spell to imitate the perfect, complex composition that was True Love; he knew this because he'd spent centuries looking for it. In his anger and his shame, he'd taken the heart of his first love, and he'd crushed it instead of setting her free as he should have. If his magic could turn back the clock, he thought that this was one of the many things he'd change, but it couldn't.

"Are you alright?" he asked her softly, and she nodded before lifting her chin.

"I'm just tired of coming here, I suppose," she said, the weariness in her voice matching what she'd just told him. "Hasn't everything been said between the two of us?"

He frowned, but understood. "I guess there is _one_ more thing," he admitted. "Do you remember our first Christmas?" Again, she nodded, the amiability of that particular memory smoothing the creases on her brow and around her eyes, somewhat.

"We were snowed in," she recalled, and her gaze wandered to the window. "It was a lot like today, and we just stayed in bed. We took turns at stocking the hearth, and we had some bread left over from the day before. It had gone hard, but you made us some soup to dip it in."

"If you could call it soup. It was really only the hot water I'd boiled a carrot and half a potato in."

A smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. "It wasn't so bad," she conceded, haltingly adding, "And, that was one of the best days of our marriage."

He placed his hand on hers, and he felt her breath catch at the intimacy of the gesture, but she didn't withdraw, and at last he felt strong enough to say the words that were forming in his head. "I'm sorry," he mumbled, and her eyes widened at him. "I really am," he persisted. "I'm sorry that I ended your life. Nothing that you did would have justified that, and I want _you_ to know that _I_ know that now, and I'm sorry."

He wasn't hoping for forgiveness, and he didn't want to ease his conscience at her expense, but he felt that this was overdue, and that she probably needed to hear it before she'd find the peace her restless soul was looking for. She patted his hand with her free one, and he watched her go as she dematerialized for what he hoped would be the last time. Her glass and the bottle of wine remained, both bitter and sweet.

Lost in his musings, he sat there for a time, and the roof began creaking under the weight of the heavy, sticky snow that had fallen. It was almost dark when there was a knock on the door, and he startled, wondering how anyone but a ghost could have found their way in this white out to arrive at his little cabin. He'd had it built for him years ago under the curse by a contractor, and no one knew about it. No one except for Belle, and when he opened the door, it was her he found waiting there.

His jaw dropped and his lips parted, but he didn't know what to say to his beautiful young wife who stood facing him after all this time, wearing a dark blue ski parka and a soft white bobble hat and matching scarf. Her long, chestnut colored locks were wet, and her hands were buried deep inside the pockets of her coat as she shuffled about anxiously, trembling from the cold. She _must_ have been freezing, he thought, because she certainly hadn't come here in a car, as they once had together a few days after their wedding. A quick look around confirmed that she was alone, and that she'd come the five miles from Storybrooke on foot.

"May I come in?" she finally asked, offering a small smile, and he briskly stepped aside, realizing that he might have given her the impression she wasn't welcome.

"Of course," he breathed nervously, but suddenly it occurred to him that perhaps she wasn't real.

He pictured that something terrible might have happened, and he hadn't been there to protect her. The thought of that made him nauseous as she stomped the snow from her boots as best she could before entering and taking them off by the door. He mechanically helped her with her wet parka and put it by the fire to dry while she warmed her hands there next to him, dripping all over the stone tiles. Catching a faint whiff of her perfume was more than he could bear, so he went to fetch her a towel from the wall cabinet in his tiny bathroom, and he almost broke down before he'd reached it.

Telling himself over and over to keep breathing, he stayed away for longer than he'd intended to, trying to steady himself. When he returned, she'd already settled into his armchair, fingercombing her hair, and his heart stopped at the sight of her.

He handed her the towel, and she took it from him gratefully, her fingers briefly brushing his, sending shivers up and down his spine. He couldn't take his eyes off her, afraid that she'd vanish as all the others who came to see him always had. Even if she did, though, then he'd still have _this_, at least, and he hoped that she wouldn't have cause to return because he wished her only the best, and above all: happiness. He hadn't made her happy, but she deserved to be, and he'd rather never see her again after tonight than know she was _un_happy.

Hunkering down near her feet, he watched her intently until she'd finished drying off, storing every detail of her face and the way she moved away inside himself for when he'd be alone with his regrets once more.

She surprised him yet again by sliding down beside him then, reaching for him, and he reacted to her automatically, pulling her to him and holding her close. He relished every second of feeling the familiar tingle of her body against his own, and he slowly began to relax.

"I've missed you so much," she murmured, her breath warm and real on his neck. "I shouldn't have… I didn't –"

"Don't," he cut her off gently, his voice breaking as he closed his eyes, shifting his weight so he could wrap himself completely around her. "Don't say anything. It's alright."

Feeling her tears on his skin then, he realized she couldn't be a ghost; she wasn't here to haunt him. She was here to heal them both, and since neither of them could ever go back, they would have to go forward now, dreaming their deep and longing dream of sunlight. The path was hidden beneath a thick blanket of snow, but he knew it was there and that it _could_ be found, and she did, too. It was a good thing they'd both learned to see in the gloom because there _was_ Light even in the very darkest night of winter.

* * *

><p><em><span>Notes, December 27, 2014:<span>_

_I was so excited to find that there is now a 'companion piece' to this story, completed last night by my good friend cynicsquest. If you're interested in reading Belle's point of view after she put Rumple across the town line, take a look at it. It's called '**Winter: Remix**', and it's a really really really great read!_


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